


in which charlie teaches cas to flirt

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel & Charlie Bradbury Friendship, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, GAY/LESBIAN SOLIDARITY, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Charlie Bradbury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 20:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14480355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: Charlie watches. And observes. Usually she prides herself on her observational skills, among a wide gamut of other things (modesty…maybe or maybe not being one of them), but it wouldn’t take Sherlock freaking Holmes to figure out Cas’ goo-goo eyes for Dean from like, a satellite in space.





	in which charlie teaches cas to flirt

**Author's Note:**

> (This fic is 3 years old; I'm just copy-pasting it from tumblr for safekeeping.)

Charlie watches. And observes. Usually she prides herself on her observational skills, among a wide gamut of other things (modesty…maybe or maybe not being one of them), but it wouldn’t take Sherlock freaking Holmes to figure out Cas’ goo-goo eyes for Dean from like, a satellite in space.

But it’s almost….well, sad? Watching them interact. Cas is so clearly hopelessly out of his league, like he’ll say these things that could definitely be construed as flirting but when Dean will snap an assessing look his way, it’s clear Cas meant it as blandly and innocently as the driven snow. It gets annoying and, quite frankly, pitiful to watch.

Charlie, patron saint of wingwomaning that she is, takes mercy on Cas when Dean gets up from the table after dinner to break the seal. Sam’s already gone to bed, making hurried excuses about exhaustion or a migraine or something, so Charlie’s got Cas alone which, perfect.

“Soooo,” she says, drawing out the word as she fiddles with a beer-cap. “You like Dean?”

“I find his company enjoyable,” Cas says with a frown. “Of course.”

“No,” Charlie says, then feels like a grade-schooler when she adds, with emphatic insistence, “like,  _like_ -like.”

“ _Like_ -like,” Cas echoes in a flat tone of voice, raising his eyebrows in incomprehension.

“You know, the cupids with the fluffy hearts, head over heels, bit by the love bug, whole nine?  _That_ kind of like-like.”

Cas’ face goes smooth and cold as marble, and Charlie’s instantly nervous that she might’ve crossed a line—and  _right_ after getting Cas to like her, too.

“It hadn’t really occurred to me in that way,” Cas says in a stilted tone of voice, but his shoulders slump and his expression pinches miserably.

Charlie smiles sadly and reaches out to place a hand on Cas’ intertwined fingers in sympathy. “Dude, in-love-with-a-maybe-not-so-straight-person-and-you-know-they-most-likely-won’t-return-feelings-but-you’re-in-love-with-them-anyway? Totally been there.  _Totally_ sucks.”

“I don’t concern myself with human sexuality,” Cas grumbles, propping his chin on his arms in a sullen, strangely human-like mannerism.

“Well, you should, because seriously? It could help you score in a  _big_ way,” Charlie says, waggling her eyebrows and grinning when Cas turns his gaze on her quizzically. “If you know what I mean.”

Cas thinks that over for a moment before he says, very solemnly, “I would very much like to score Dean’s affection.”

“Holy Castiel Batman,” Charlie mutters. This is going to be harder than she thought. “Look, I’m just trying to lend a helping hand, alright? Help you get the guy and all that romcom jazz, even if dudes aren’t really my….uh, area of expertise.”

“So what do you expect me to do?” Castiel says crossly, and Charlie inwardly crows in victory that at least, hey, the guy’s at least admitting it, or at least not actively denying it.

Which, Dean might’ve vanished into a black hole or something. Either that or it’s the longest, godliest piss known to man. But it gives Charlie more time to mentor her new student.

“Okay,” she begins, planting her hands palms-down on the table, “first, you—”

“The whole thing is fruitless,” Cas says, his chin still propped on his arms. His mouth curves downward morosely. “Even if I were to make….attempts, in which I would be completely inept, by the way, Dean would never return the affections in the same nature.”

“You  _don’t_ know that,” Charlie says. “Trust me, with Dean, you'd….you’d be surprised.” She doesn’t want to say anything to Cas, lest she fuck up and get his angelic feelings hurt in a big way, but she’s  _heard_ Dean talk about Cas. Pine over him. Bitch about him, laugh about him, tell war-stories about him. He gets this just….dumb look on his face when he does, this goofy, almost child-like grin that Charlie doesn’t exactly chalk up to being without basis, but Dean's….a tough card to parse out, in any case.

Besides, she read the books. And maybe or maybe didn’t see the musical twice, which is a thing now. Whatever.

“And risk the chance of fucking everything up,” Cas says sourly, and the profanity seems even sharper coming from his mouth.

“Okay, shush. Dean’s gonna come back soon,” Charlie says, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning toward Cas. “And I gotta say, you kind of….put off vibes, dude. Like,  _bedroom_  vibes.”

Cas’ brow scrunches in perplexity. “In what way?”

“I don’t know, with the eyes and the voice and the face.”

“Thank you for elaborating.”

“You put off a certain like, come-hither thing when you’re around Dean. Maybe it’s freaky angel pheromones or some shit, but I think Dean can feel it too, and I can tell that—” Charlie takes a deep breath and pops her knuckles, because she’s taking a big leap here, one that could potentially screw around massively with both of her friends, but it’s one she’s willing to take, to wipe the miserable look off Cas’ face and maybe off Dean’s too. “I can tell that sometimes he wants to maybe…y'know, reciprocate, but then you shut down. You become like this unapproachable wall.”

Cas isn’t looking at her, but Charlie can tell by the cant of his head toward her that he’s listening keenly to what she has to say.

“Just….try this,” Charlie suggests. “When he comes back, and sits down, nudge his foot a little with yours and see what he does.”

“Why would I do that?” Cas says, deadpan, and Charlie can kind of get why Dean refers to him mostly in passing as a grumpy little shit.

“To see how he responds, dummy. If it’s encouraging, do it again until he gets the message. Trust me, footsie’s like, a surefire way to get some action.”

“Footsie,” Cas repeats in his bass-deep voice, as though storing away for future knowledge, and his nose crinkles like he’s tasted something bad.

“And just….ugh, here.” Charlie grabs Cas by the tie and pulls him forward, combing a hand through his hair a few times so it’s chaotically mussed from its usual tidy array. “You’ve got to mess up your hair like you’ve gone a few rounds with someone.”

“Okay,” Cas says, completely bewildered but letting Charlie basically manhandle him as a mannequin.

Charlie scrutinizes him slowly, eyes narrowed, before she says, “Suit jacket off.”

Cas obeys, still looking completely put-out as he does so, and Charlie leans forward to loosen up his tie from its neat knot.

“Good,” Charlie says with an approving nod. “Perfectly debauched-looking. Now just like….lick your mouth a  _lot_ when you talk to him. And do that thing where you look at him through your eyelashes.”

“There’s absolutely no guarantee that  _any_ of this will work,” Cas says with a heavy sigh, turning to gaze at the kitchen exit anxiously where Dean had left.

“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. And don’t worry about anything else, I'll…get the ball rolling with a little nudge.”

Cas looks—appropriately, Charlie thinks—suspicious. “By doing what?”

“ _Whoo,_ ” Dean says, reentering the kitchen with a jaunt in his step and rubbing a hand over his belly. “Sorry guys, there was some sort of mojo in that pizza that….yeah, never mind.”

“Gross,” Charlie complains, flicking a pepperoni at him.

“Hey, digestion is a part of the human experience,” Dean says in a wise, serene voice, taking a seat next to Cas again. “Let the river flow.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Dean grins impishly and reaches for a deck of cards across the table, and Charlie hears it, the slight scuffle under the table.

A strange look passes over Dean’s face, and if Charlie weren’t watching for it, she’d miss the quick, startled look Dean flicks in Cas’ direction.

“What do you think,” Dean says, sweeping on after he stumbles over the first word, “Egyptian Ratscrew?”

“I’m down,” Charlie says, tucking her knees under herself for better leverage. “But I’m warning you, these rings hurt like a bitch when I slap hands.”

There’s another jolt under the table and Dean jumps, his eyes widening comically as he turns to stare at Cas. Cas is gazing surreptitiously at the ceiling like he’s noticed an interesting pattern there, and Charlie coughs, just as inconspicuously, into her hand.

“Anyway,” Dean says in a much more choked voice than before, and Charlie bites down on her lip against a smile, hard. “I don’t know if you remember the gist of the game, but— _Jesus!_ ”

That’d been another jolt and there’s definitely a flush traveling up Dean’s neck as he fixes his eyes straightforward, not focusing on either Charlie or Cas.

Okay, so Dean’s not grabbing anyone and making out yet. Plan B.

“You want a beer from the fridge?” Charlie asks quickly, bouncing to her feet, and both pairs of eyes fasten on her in bewilderment.

“Yeah, just whatever you can find,” Dean says, turning to stare long and hard at Cas.

Okay, this is a stupid, shitty-ass plan, but it’s the only one that she has right now. She opens the fridge door and pretends to root around for a beer and she stays submerged in the fridge for a long time, like she’s looking for Narnia or something, and when she surfaces and sneakily glances over through a curtain of her hair, Dean’s saying something in a low voice to Cas, inclined toward him, maybe questioning him.

Charlie drops to her knees and slides one of her rings under the fridge.

“Son of a  _bitch,_ ” she says loudly, drawing both of their attentions quickly again when she stands and puts hands on her hips. “I dropped my ring and it rolled under the fridge. Cas, you mind giving me a hand?”

“Uh…” Cas says, clearly confused. “I suppose so.”

He gets up from the table and crosses to Charlie’s side.

“What are you doing,” he hisses at her through his teeth, almost skillfully so—like, the dude could be a nifty ventriloquist, in another life.

“Follow my lead,” she mouths, and steps back into Dean’s eyesight.

“You can lift this, right?” Charlie asks, scratching the back of her head inquisitively.

Cas shrugs and leans down, and like something out of the frigging  _Incredible Hulk,_ just lifts this thousand-pound fridge like it’s a toaster.

“Do you see it?” Cas asks in an unlabored voice, and he’s barely broken a sweat.

“Yep,” Charlie says, grabbing for the ring. “Got it. Thanks, Cas.”

Cas sets the fridge down just as easily, and Charlie chances a look at Dean on the way back to the table. He’s staring at Cas with his mouth slightly ajar, his eyes a little bit glazed, and if there were  _any_ doubt in Charlie’s mind before this whole ridiculous fiasco, it flies out the mental window. Dean wants this guy. Seriously bad.

“Thanks for that,” Charlie says when they sit down again, smiling warmly in Cas’ direction.

She isn’t sure if it’s because of her previous instruction, but Cas absent-mindedly licks his lips. Dean’s riveted. Lolz.

“It was nothing,” Cas says.

“What happened to your hair?” Dean blurts, and they both turn slowly to stare at him. Dean makes a defensive, vague hand-gesture toward Cas. “I just…it looks different.”

“Hey, no one’s hair stays perfect during heavy-lifting,” Charlie jokes, throwing an elbow toward Cas’ ribs. “Am I right, Cas?”

“I would hardly deign to call that heavy,” Cas says in a bored voice, which,  _perfect._ It’s like he’s not even fucking trying. Amazing.

“Dean told me about the time you lifted that huge anvil on a case,” Charlie sweeps on, arching her eyebrows, and Dean transfers wide, embarrassed dagger eyes on her.

“Yes,” Cas says in reminiscence, his gaze dropping to the table, his dark eyelashes flicking. “That was….an interesting case. One I remember well.”

Which…whoa. There’s definitely some baggage to be unpacked there, because Cas is still staring at the table and Dean’s gazing at him sideways with this tender, achey look that makes Charlie feel like she’s been kicked in the solar plexus.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean says softly, still looking at Cas.

Fucking idiots.

“Hey, why don’t we do the fortune-teller again?” Charlie suggests in a bright voice, scribbling out some answers in the flaps. “Cards are boring. Erm….Dean. How about you go first?”

“Sure,” Dean says reluctantly, and reaches forward and touches the blue card with a half-hearted flick of his fingers.

Charlie spells out “B-L-U-E” and then says, “A number.”

Dean picks eight, his ears still a lovely crimson color, as Charlie flips the fortune-tellers flaps back and forth, back and forth.

“This one,” Charlie says in a bright voice, flipping the flap up and handing it to Dean.

Dean stares at it for a moment, stares long and hard at where Charlie had scribbled out in a fast scrawl, “Cas likes you too, dumbass. Don’t fuck it up.”

“What is it?” Cas asks at Dean’s long silence, curiously, and Dean snaps the fortune-teller shut and tosses it back to Charlie.

“Nothing,” Dean says quietly, his eyes focused down in his lap, and Charlie’s sure, right then and there, that she’d made a huge mistake, a huge colossal ginormous fuck-up that had ruined everything, but she’s also plain confused, because she’s almost  _never_  wrong about Dean.

“Dean,” Charlie begins, already trying to backtrack, maybe to pass it off as a joke in a last-minute desperate attempt at redemption, but Dean says in a very calm and even voice, “Cas, can I talk to you a second?”

Cas frowns. “Not here?”

“Alone,” Dean says, standing from the table. Cas casts a fast, nervous look sideways at Charlie—clearly, this wasn’t something either of them had anticipated—but he nods once in Dean’s direction and gets up to follow him.

Charlie keeps her head ducked, trying not to look as shamefaced as she feels when they leave the kitchen because she’s  _pretty_ sure Cas is about to get yelled at for something that  _she’d_ initiated. Road to hell…paved with turd-blossoms, or something.

She sighs, moving the remaining crust of her pizza around on her plate, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And w—holy shit, she is  _not_ motherfucking Rip Van Winkle.

It’s been like at least a half an hour by the time she checks her phone. Maybe Cas needs to be saved, which—hey, Cas would make a pretty cute damsel, and Charlie’s an equally cute knight.

She heads down the hallway toward Dean’s room, pausing at the door and craning to hear anything, but for a moment, she only hears unpromising silence.

She raises her knuckles to rap on the door, like two seconds from knocking, when she hears it—a very distinct…loud….sex-groan. That’s the only way it could be described. A guttural, gut-wrenching, sexy groan that basically reverberates through the bunker walls like it’s on  _intercom_.

Charlie feels her whole face transform, first to shock, then to triumph—she’s beaming victoriously by the time she backtracks through the hallway in socked feet, toward the living room, where she happily and self-sacrificingly heads to take the couch for the night.

“Yep,” she whispers to herself as she lays down, grinning at the ceiling. “Still got it.”


End file.
